


the storm freed the stars

by WingedQuill



Series: weather patterns [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Violence, Both literally and figuratively, Child Death, Family Feels, Found Family, Gladiators, Grief/Mourning, How many faked deaths is too many faked deaths?, Implied Mpreg, Kidnapping, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Parent-Child Relationship, Past Child Abuse, Slavery, Tags Contain Spoilers, This fic has more, Trans Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Whatever that number is, hooo boy where do I start
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:06:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27930478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingedQuill/pseuds/WingedQuill
Summary: The days after the sacking are foggy, shrouded in grief, but Geralt remembers Lambert slicing and hacking and screaming his heart out, decapitating dummies in the battlefield that had taken so many of their kind. He remembers Lambert collapsing to his knees on the fourth day, sobbing into his hands like all the fire in his chest had turned to water in a heartbeat.He never wanted to see Lambert like that again. And yet…And yet.The world doesn’t let witchers keep the people they love.(Or: Geralt helps Lambert shoulder a horribly familiar grief. Meanwhile, sold into slavery as a gladiator and forced to fight for the entertainment of humans, Aiden just tries to survive.)
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Male Character(s)
Series: weather patterns [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1823278
Comments: 14
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally here! The sequel to "the sun wed the storm" aka the "Geralt had a husband before he met Jaskier" fic. I am really, really excited about this, as most anyone who's been chatting to me on discord can attest to. Huge thanks as always to everyone who weighed in on my ideas for this fic, but especially to MaliciousVegetarian and Thewonderfulthingaboutfish. Y'all rock.
> 
> Also! [roylbluu made some wonderful art](https://roylbluu.tumblr.com/post/633202837960130560/art-of-geralt-of-rivia-and-geraltstiddyarmor-s) of Geralt and Luka! Thank you so much, this is so beautiful and I love how you portrayed them.
> 
> Alrighty. Onwards we go.

_ December, 1261 _

By the time they reach the gates of Kaer Morhen, Jaskier has stolen two pairs of Geralt’s gloves, his fur-lined hat, his warmest boots, two shirts, and a cloak. And he’s  _ still  _ shivering.

“I told you that you needed better winter gear,” Geralt smirks as he leads Roach through the gate.

“I  _ bought _ better winter gear,” Jaskier says, his teeth chattering. It’s not  _ totally _ inaccurate _ ,  _ as “a single pair of woolen gloves and a scarf” is better than “nothing at all.” But he was still woefully unprepared for the bone-freezing chill of a Kaedweni December. Geralt is certain that Jaskier must have spent every one of his past winters in Touissant, or maybe Nilfgaard. 

“You neglected to mention that Kaer Morhen gets as cold as the  _ bloody arctic,”  _ Jaskier continues, huddling deeper into Geralt’s cloak.

“It’ll be better once we get inside,” Geralt says, swinging open the doors to the stables. It’s warm inside, the walls well-insulated by hay, keeping in the horses’ body heat. Jaskier sighs in relief, leaning against the wall.

“You can just leave me here,” he says, as Geralt removes Roach’s tack. She makes it difficult, tugging at her reins in an attempt to reach her feed bucket. He gets the bridle off and lets her at it, kneeling down to pick out her hooves.

“Are you volunteering to muck out the stalls all season?” he asks. “Sleep on a bed of hay?”

He lets go of Roach’s last hoof and gets to his feet, turning to face Jaskier.

“Depends,” Jaskier says. He shoves himself off of the wall and saunters over to Geralt in a manner that’s probably supposed to be seductive. The effect is slightly ruined by the heaps of clothing that swaddle him from head to toe. Geralt snorts, purposefully turning his back on him and picking up a brush.

“On what?” he asks.

“Will you be joining me?” 

He loops his arms around Geralt’s waist and rests his chin on Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt leans into the embrace, closing his eyes and letting a small smile bloom over his face.

It’s nice, having Jaskier here for a whole winter. They’ve been lovers for five years, but this step feels...intimate. More intimate than anything they’ve done together, like Geralt is finally weaving Jaskier into the fabric of his life. Like they’re building something permanent.

It terrifies him, when he thinks about it for too long, so he lets his mind drift to happier things. Teaching Jaskier the Kaer Morhen house rules of Gwent, taking him snowshoeing, curling up with him in front of the fire and listening as he regales his family with (mostly accurate) tales of their hunts.

And, of course—

“Why would I do that?” he asks. “Out here? Roach has seen enough of your ass, and the beds in the castle are plenty comfortable.”

“Always thinking of your horse’s honor,” Jaskier laughs. He presses a kiss to the back of Geralt’s neck with his still-cold lips, sending a shiver jolting down Geralt’s spine. “Come on then, show me how comfortable the beds—”

The stable door crashes open, and Jaskier detangles himself from Geralt with a yelp. Geralt spins around, ready to chew out one of his brothers for not being able to wait  _ five fucking seconds— _

His words die on his tongue. 

It’s Eskel. Only he doesn’t wear the usual joy-excitement-relief at seeing Geralt after a long year on the Path. Nor does he look embarrassed at interrupting him and Jaskier. No, the look on his face is  _ dread,  _ pure and simple. Dread, and exhaustion, and the stirrings of grief.

“What happened?” Geralt says, all the gathering warmth of a winter at home snuffed out in an instant.  _ Was it Vesemir? Did Eskel come home to find Vesemir—? _

“It’s Lambert,” Eskel says, and Geralt’s stomach drops.  _ No. No, not Lambert, not the baby of the pack, gods, no— _

The horror must show on his face, because Eskel is quickly raising his hands, stepping forward like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse. 

“No,  _ no,  _ not that. He’s alive.”

Relief pours into Geralt’s stomach, mingling with the horror. He leans heavily against Roach’s stall, his knees weak as the air rushes out of his lungs.

“Sorry,” Eskel says. “I didn’t mean to scare you, I—he’s alive. He’s okay. Physically speaking, at least, but…”

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Jaskier puts a hand on Geralt’s shoulder, a silent pillar of comfort.

“He lost someone,” Eskel says at last. “Someone important. He’s—it’s bad. He hasn’t been eating, hasn’t been sleeping. Just cutting heads off training dummies and shooting fire at anyone who gets near him.”

Geralt swallows. It’s a familiar thing, this anger of Lambert’s. Sometimes, Geralt thinks it might be determined to burn him alive from the inside.

“Just like after the sacking,” he murmurs. Those days are foggy, shrouded in grief, but he remembers Lambert slicing and hacking and  _ screaming  _ his heart out, decapitating dummies in the battlefield that had taken so many of their kind. He remembers Lambert collapsing to his knees on the fourth day, sobbing into his hands like all the fire in his chest had turned to water in a heartbeat.

He remembers sitting next to him, too hazy with grief to form words, but aware enough to be there. He remembers Lambert burying his face in his shoulder like he was a child again, babbling out apologies and promises and curses at the world.

He never wanted to see Lambert like that again. And yet…

And yet.

The world doesn’t let witchers keep the people they love.

“Take me to him,” he says.

***

_ September, 1261 _

Aiden wakes in jolting, nauseating darkness. He’s lying on a hard, wooden floor, his head thudding against it with every jerk of the room around him. Or not room. Rooms don’t move, do they? A carriage, then? A ship?

He gets his hands underneath himself and shoves up, the muscles in his arms shaking. Something clinks together, and he follows that clinking sound with his fingers to find cold metal chains. He runs his hands down them, and sure enough, they’re attached to manacles that encircle his wrists and ankles. He shapes his stiff fingers into the sign for Aard.

Nothing.

Dimeritium then. Wonderful.

His head is a blur, trying to piece together what happened, what led him here. But all he can remember is Lambert’s face, twisted up in fear, a scream bubbling from his mouth.

“Lamb?” he calls out, his voice as rough as sandpaper. No response. He strains his ears, trying to hear anything over the crashing thud of his own body, bumping against the ground. Nothing. No heartbeat, no breath.

He hesitates, and then takes a deep breath through his nose.

No smell of a rotting corpse.

Lambert got away. He sags against the wall, relief sparking through him. Lambert escaped. They—whoever  _ they  _ were—can’t hurt him. Can’t use him and Aiden against each other.

One one last thud, the carriage—he’s  _ fairly  _ certain he’s in a carriage—jolts to a halt. Aiden tenses, creeping away from the wall, as far as his chains will allow him. If his captors get near enough, he can jump them. Wrestle them to the ground, snatch away the keys to his chains. He might be about five seconds from hurling, but he’s still a witcher.

The door opens, and light streams into the carriage. Aiden hisses, bringing up his shackled hands to shield his eyes. There’s a laugh, soft and self-satisfied.

“Well, you’re alive,” a voice says. “That’s good to see.”

_ Shit. Fuck. _

Aiden brings his hands down, squinting up at his captor with as much malice as he can muster.

“Hello Karidan,” he snarls.

“You know I never  _ thought  _ I’d be glad to see you,” Jad Karidan says, stepping into the carriage. He’s smiling like...well, like a cat that got the canary, to be honest. “You’ve only ever made my life worse.”

_ Making his life worse  _ entails slipping into Karidan’s caravan at night and picking the locks of the slaves chained up in a wagon, ready to sell.  _ Making his life worse  _ entails setting those people free, people that wouldn’t even  _ be  _ people if Karidan had any say in it.

Aiden doesn’t point any of this out to him. Despite what Lambert always says, he does have  _ some  _ sense of when to keep his mouth shut. And chained up and powerless while Karidan holds all the cards? It is definitely one of those times.

So instead, he takes a deep breath, staring out past Karidan to try and get some sense of their location. A forest of white birch standing tall and proud, their leaves rustling in the faint breeze. Jays cawing back and forth at each other. The screech of a hawk overhead.

They’ve gone inland, he realizes. Away from the Redanian coast, somewhere deep in the hilly woods that span the border of Redania and Kaedwan. Not far, but certainly longer than he’d like to be unconscious and unaware.

_ Close to Kaer Morhen. Close to safety, if he can only get away from Karidan. _

“What are you going to do to me then?” he asks, lifting his head high and trying to keep the fear out of his voice. Based on Karidan’s widening grin, he doesn’t think he was very successful. 

“I’m getting back some of the money you’ve taken from me over the years,” he says slowly, deliberately, watching Aiden’s face for a reaction.

The meaning of the words sinks into Aiden’s stomach like a rock.

He’d always saved Karidan’s slaves from windowless wagons. Exactly like this one.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, even though he already knows. Some childish, hopeful part of himself still screams that this can’t be happening to him.

“Witchers fetch a pretty penny,” Karidan laughs. “Rare. Exotic. People will pay to do all kinds of things to a witcher.”

The fear blisters through him like a wildfire, scorching the back of his throat and using his words for kindling. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out, just a weak, strangled huff of air.

“No noble cry of protest?” Karidan jeers. “No ‘you can’t do this, you’re better than this?’ I’m almost disappointed. I thought I’d get to crush your noble streak.”

Aiden’s tongue is a pile of ash in his mouth. There’s nothing to say, he knows. No way to talk himself out of this, no way to convince Karidan to let him go. There’s only survival. Only the hope that whoever...whoever  _ buys  _ him, oh gods, is careless enough that he can escape.

“You’re taking all the fun out of gloating,” Karidan huffs. “But I suppose I’ll just entertain myself with the thoughts of you, rotting away. The thoughts of what they might do to you.”

A thousand awful images flash through Aiden’s mind, a thousand possibilities of where Karidan might sell him. He swallows the horror down, lifting his chin and trying to look strong, brave, angry. Like Lambert might, if he were the one that Karidan had captured.

Karidan steps backwards with a grin, back out into the world he’s snatched away from Aiden.

“The great Aiden, trembling in his chains,” he murmurs to himself. “A good last memory of you. One that I will cherish for quite some time.”

With that, he reaches out to the side and slams the wagon door shut, leaving Aiden in the dark. A moment later, there’s a piercing whistle, and they start moving again, the wagon jostling him from side to side.

He closes his eyes. He won’t cry, not even while he’s alone. He refuses to give Karidan the satisfaction of breaking him.

_ And whoever he sells you to? What about them? _

He wraps his arms around himself, taking deep, steadying breaths. In and out, like the rush of ocean waves. He remembers Lambert sitting with him, holding his hand, talking him through the bouts of panic that rose up and choked him, in the moments when the world felt overwhelmingly large. 

_ “In for four. Hold, hold, keep holding, lion, you’re doing great. And out.” _

But this wasn’t some irrational fear, some sudden knowledge that everyone hated him, that the sky would crush him underfoot, that Lambert and Gaetan and everyone he loved would die screaming. It was chains on his hands, it was solid, unyielding darkness, it was nausea and dizziness and  _ where the fuck is Karidan selling him— _

_ “People will pay to do all kinds of things to a witcher.” _

_ A mage that wants to tear out his heart and see how it ticks, a lord who wants to punish him for the witcher that failed to save his child, a field, an army, a fucking  _ **_brothel,_ ** _ he can’t do this, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t, but it’s happening anyway, his life is falling out of his fingertips and he  _ **_can’t fucking do anything—_ **

He lunges for the walls of the wagon, slamming his fists against them. He’s strong, isn’t he? The master witchers made sure of that when they poured poison into his veins, when they made his eyes weapons against his own brain, when they crammed every cell so full of magic he was sure he’d dissolve from the inside out. They tore him to pieces just to put him back together a little bit stronger, and damn all the gods, he’s going to use that strength to claim his fucking freedom.

_ Bang, bang, bang. _

But the wood is unyielding.

_ Bang, bang, bang. _

But he is still tired and dizzy and  _ weak. _

**_Bang, bang, bang._ **

But Karidan is used to caging far more powerful creatures than him.

A scream tears its way out of his throat, wild and anguished, like a feral animal caught in a trap. He throws his entire body into the wall. Again and again and again, and it does nothing, it solves nothing, it saves nothing.

He is nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

_ September, 1261 _

The wagon stops only a few hours later and Aiden immediately tenses, adrenaline rushing through him. He unsheathes his claws, crouches down low, and waits. If someone comes into the wagon—to feed him, to hurt him, it doesn’t matter—he might be able to catch them by surprise. Jump them, claw their face to ribbons. Pray to the gods that they have a key to his chains.

The doors creak open, letting in the warm orange light of sunset. He shrinks back. Let them think his chains are shorter than they are, let them come to him.

A laugh, short and mocking. A human sticks his head into the wagon, grinning as his eyes flick over Aiden.  _ Inspecting  _ him. Aiden’s skin crawls, and he bares his teeth, snarling in a way that has made monsters think twice about attacking him. The human doesn’t even blink. If anything, his smile only seems to grow.

“He really is like a feral cat, isn’t he?” he snorts. “Ready to tear us to shreds at the first opportunity.”

“Told you he’d be a good fighter,” Karidan says. He’s about ten feet back, leaning lazily against a tree. “Have I ever been wrong before?”

“Hmph, can’t say you have. But then again, you never know how these things’ll go in the arena.”

_ Arena? What the fuck—? _

“Standard deal,” the man continues. “One fight before payment. Just to make sure he doesn’t give up and die.”

“One condition,” Karidan says. He peels away from the tree and draws closer to the wagon. “I get to watch.”

“Right before I rip your fucking eyes out,” Aiden growls. 

A scream catches somewhere in his throat. The human’s plans for him— _ Karidan’s  _ plans for him—are growing clearer and clearer. Arenas and fights and giving up. He’s heard whispers about places like this, humans making monsters fight each other for entertainment. Hell, Lambert had just busted up an underground ghoul fighting ring last year.

But to bring people into it. To bring  _ slaves  _ into it. That’s a new low, that’s something he’s never even heard  _ rumors  _ of, gods, how long has this been  _ happening—? _

How long will it  _ keep  _ happening?

“Now, now,” the human chides. “Is that any way to talk in the presence of your master?”

“I have no master.” Aiden raises his chin, glaring at the man and narrowing his pupils into slits. “And I never will.”

The man sighs, with an air of obviously fake regret, and snaps his fingers.

Aiden  _ burns.  _

The scream he’s been holding back bursts from his throat, and he collapses onto his side, muscles spasming as wave after wave of lightning-hot magic courses through him.

“Well he suffers nicely,” the human says. “That’s promising.”

Aiden grits his teeth, trying to lock the pain back inside him, but the burning reaches a new height and he can’t hold it, it’s consuming him, it’s  _ melting him,  _ it’s—

“That’s enough for now. Don’t want you to blow out your vocal cords.”

Two snaps, and just like that, it’s over. He’s left shivering on the filthy wagon floor, trying to rein in his sobs. 

The human steps up into the wagon and crosses the floor, easily in range of the chains. But Aiden can’t even get his arms under himself, let alone lunge forward and rip the human’s throat out. His muscles feel like water, and aftershocks of the magic still tremble through him, making it impossible to get his limbs to obey him.

“A useful invention, don’t you think?” the human says, lifting up Aiden’s unresisting hand. He runs his thumb over the cuff on his wrist. “Discipline and protection all in one. Without them, one of you beasts would’ve torn out my guts a long time ago.”

He drops Aiden’s hand. It falls to the ground with a thud.

“As I was going to say before the slave so rudely interrupted, you can watch,” the human tells Karidan as he pulls a key from his robe. “I take it you have a grudge?”

A few clicks, and the chains hang loose from the wagon walls, pulled free from Aiden’s manacles. But even if he had use of his limbs, he’d never be able to run. Not with the cuffs still on him. Not when he could be brought to the ground by a single snap of the human’s fingers.

“Remember that mermaid I was supposed to bring you two years ago? He’s the reason that fell through.”

The human fists his hand in Aiden’s hair, dragging his head off the ground. His eyes skim over Aiden’s face—taking in his damp cheeks, his slightly crooked nose, the tiny scar under his left eye. There’s something like anticipation in his expression. Delight.  _ Hunger. _

Another shiver runs through Aiden. This one has nothing to do with the magic.

“Well then, I’m glad you brought him to me,” the man grins. “Thieves must be brought to justice, after all.”

_ Theft.  _ Like giving someone their life back was a crime.

There’s blood in Aiden’s mouth, hot and wet. He must have bitten his tongue.

And he knows it’s a bad idea. He knows it’ll bring him nothing but pain. But he won’t lie here and let this man call him a slave, a thief, a beast. He won’t lie here and be inspected like cattle. He won’t lie here and let the two of them delight in his suffering.

So he spits that blood into the man’s hateful eyes, and braces himself for another shock.

If the first was fire, then this one is—he doesn’t have  _ words  _ for it, he doesn’t have a comparison. It’s pure pain, poured directly into him and left to run wild. Worse than the trials, worse than basilisk venom, worse than dragon fire. It’s agony. He  _ becomes  _ agony.

He must be screaming, but he can’t hear it. He can’t hear anything, can’t  _ see  _ anything, the world is nothing but pain and pain and—

It ends as suddenly as it began. He’s molten metal plunged into cooling water, the pieces of him stretched to their breaking point, pulled apart nearly to the point of shattering. He’s not quite sure if he has a body anymore, or if he’s just a useless ball of sensation.

The blackness recedes in his vision, the ringing quiets in his ears. The first thing he sees is the human, leaning over him and thumbing away his tears. He wants to flinch away, to get away from the cold, grubby fingers, but he can’t even move enough to do that.

“You really should be more careful about how you speak to me,” he says mildly. He lifts his hand from Aiden’s face and shows it to him. At first, he thinks the red is from the setting sun. But his mind pieces itself back together quickly. And the sun isn’t that dark, that viscous, that opaque. The sun doesn’t smell like iron and death.

“The cuffs are powerful,” the man says, rubbing Aiden’s blood between his fingers. “And the damage they can cause if used too much—well. I’d rather not fight a wyvern deaf and blind, but if you’d like to know what that’s like, you’re more than welcome to keep testing me.”

Aiden says nothing. He doesn’t think he can move his mouth enough to speak. And maybe that’s a blessing. Because nothing would come out of his mouth right now except for curses and screams and promises for retribution. 

And the human’s heart beats steady in his chest. He’s not lying. He’d really keep shocking Aiden until he was senseless forever, and then he’d pick him up and throw him before a monster. Let his—his  _ audience,  _ the people that came to watch this shit, let them see how a witcher screams and dies and—

He closes his eyes. It’s as much a surrender as he can give. Because he  _ needs  _ to surrender right now, if he ever wants to leave this place whole. 

“Good,” the human says. There’s a rustle of cloth as he steps back.

“Not tame by a long shot,” he tells Karidan. “But then, your kind never are. I’ve yet to break a witcher.”

“Maybe he’ll be your first,” Karidan says, and there’s laughter on the edges of his voice. 

“Maybe,” the human says. “Alright, let me grab some of my guards. I doubt he’ll be able to walk to the cells.”

He tries to hold on to consciousness, if only so he can memorize what route they take. It won’t make escaping easier if he has no idea how to reach the exit, after all. But as soon as the hands take hold of his limbs and  _ lift,  _ the world goes blurry and white around the edges. His head lolls to the side and his stomach lolls with it, nausea and dizziness washing over him, leaving his back prickling with sweat.

Still, he manages to breathe through it. He manages to hold on, until they heave him over the side of the wagon like a sack of flour.

He’s unconscious before he even hits the ground.

***

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he wakes, on his back, staring up at a rocky ceiling. He shifts, hissing in pain as something  _ pulls  _ in his chest, sending pain lancing through his arms and torso.  _ Breathe. Breathe. Breathe and take it slow. _

The pain subsides after a few moments and he moves again, slower this time, levering himself into a seated position so that he can properly take in the room. Bars, running unbroken from the floor to the ceiling, cage him in on three sides, solid rock making up the fourth. Beyond his cell is a dim corridor—no windows, just a line of sputtering torches set into the wall. 

Cells line the other side, crammed tightly together. Most are empty, but some contain other prisoners, curled up on the ground or pacing back and forth as much as the space allows. Dwarves, elves, sylvans. A merman, his scales and skin dry and patchy from gods-know-how-long out of the water. Two dryads, lying limply on a bed of rags and staring up at the ceiling. Their hair is scraggly and patchy, and he can practically see their skeletons. Slowly starving from lack of contact with nature.

The air reeks of suffering. Piss and shit, blood and vomit, infection and death. Concentrated human misery, locked up underground and left to rot. He swallows. He can feel that familiar panic creeping over him, speeding his heart and stealing his breath. Because he’s trapped. He’s trapped underground, in chains that could blind him, and no one knows he’s alive. No one is coming for him, no one is going to rescue him. He’s on his own.

And soon he’ll smell and look like every other prisoner—every other  _ slave— _ in this hellhole. Bleeding, suffering, dying slow.

He puts his hand on his chest to feel his breaths, to count the seconds of  _ inhale, hold, exhale.  _ But the moment he makes contact, that pulling pain shoots through him again. He chokes on it, struggling to get his lungs to cooperate with him. And it’s not the aftershocks of the cuffs, is it? It’s something else, something more localized.

He’s scared to look, scared to find out what they did to him while he was unconscious. But the need to  _ know,  _ to gather every bit of information he can, outweighs the fear.

He looks down.

The skin on his chest is charred, blackened and red and angry looking, And it’s—the burn is  _ shaped,  _ an elegant curling _ M  _ with a circle around it. He traces his fingers over the edges of the—the  _ brand,  _ that’s what it is, they’ve fucking  _ branded him  _ like an animal.

Lambert’s voice is in his head— _ just keep breathing in, lion— _ but he can’t listen to it, he can’t follow it, his breaths are getting faster and faster and faster and—

He loses time.

***

_ December, 1261 _

“Do you want me to come with you?” Jaskier asks. He’s doing that awkward hovering thing that he always does when he’s worried about Geralt. His movements, as always, have the uncanny resemblance to those of a mother bird. 

Geralt gets why he’s worried. Grief is nothing new to him, after all, but it’s been years since he’s needed to confront a fresh wound. And the fact that Lambert’s lost—from the sounds of it, at least—a lover…

It hits close to home. He can admit that. But right now, Lambert is more important than his heart. He can lock it away, push his own grief out of him, and unlock it later. Deal with it later, remember Luka later.

“No,” he says, as gently as he can. He hands Jaskier one of the saddlebags, the one with Temerian whisky and good spinning wool. His yearly gift to Vesemir. “Go inside, give that to Vesemir. I’ve got this.”

Jaskier bobs his head, his brow creasing.

“Right,” he says. “Give it to Vesemir. Can do.”

He bites his lip, nods once more to Eskel, and scurries out of the stable. Geralt takes a deep breath.

“When did Lambert get back?” he asks Eskel as they step out into the chill winter evening.

“Bout a week ago.”

“And he’s been outside every since?” he asks. Witcher, or not, that long in the cold...he’s surprised Vesemir hasn’t stormed through his Ignis and dragged him inside by now.

“We keep finding the furs in the Great Hall rumpled,” Eskel says. “And bread missing from the kitchen. So he seems to be coming in at night, at least.”

“That’s something,” Geralt murmurs. Still. A week straight of screaming and fighting, a week straight of hours in the cold. He wouldn’t be surprised if Lambert comes down with a fever.

“I’ve tried to talk to him,” Eskel says, as they round the corner of the keep, bringing the training yards into view. Sure enough, there’s Lambert, surrounded by a dozen dismembered training dummies, sending up puffs of snow as he whirls and stabs his way through even more. “Vesemir too. But he just…”

Geralt puts his hand on his shoulder.

“Go inside,” he murmurs. “I think I should see him alone.”

Eskel hesitates for a moment, but then nods, returning the shoulder clasp.

“It’s good to see you,” he says. “It really is.”

With that, he turns around and walks back towards the keep, no doubt to hover by a window and make sure that Lambert doesn’t set Geralt’s hair on fire. Which Geralt admits is a distinct possibility. 

He gives himself a moment to just breathe. Breathe and harden his heart. And then he steps onto the training yard.

“Hey Lamb,” he calls, the childhood nickname slipping off his tongue as easy as anything. Luka had always found it hilarious, that the fiercest little wolf of the bunch had the name of one of the world’s most harmless animals. But Lambert had, to the surprise of all of them, loved the nickname. Or maybe he just loved  _ having  _ a nickname, loved that people cared enough about him to give him one.

Lambert whirls around, his chest heaving, his fingers already flying into the shape for Igni. But when he sees it’s Geralt, he freezes, his sign hand trembling in the air.

No, he’s trembling  _ all over,  _ minute shivers running through him from head to toe. Geralt isn’t sure if it’s the cold, the adrenaline, the muscle exhaustion, or some combination of all three. But he  _ is  _ sure that Lambert is  _ not okay.  _

His eyes are ringed with dark circles. Even if he was coming inside at night and lying down by the fire, the sleep clearly wasn’t doing him much good. His hair is wild, much longer than he normally allows it to get and sticking up in a thousand different directions. And he looks half-starved, swamped by his cloak, his pants held up by a piece of rope.

Geralt swallows down the lump in his throat. Lambert hurts to  _ look at.  _ He didn’t even look this bad after the sacking, or after the fucking  _ trials.  _ Whoever this person was…

Gods. It was his Luka, wasn’t it?

“Geralt?” Lambert croaks, and yeah, he’s definitely coming down with something. Geralt resists the urge to grab him and drag him inside. That won’t do either of them any good. “Geralt, I…”

He stops, his mouth hanging open. Scrambling to find what words to say, Geralt expects. To find what words can encompass everything he’s feeling.

“I heard you’ve had a bad year,” Geralt murmurs, taking another step forward.

“Yeah,” Lambert says. “Yeah, yeah, yeah you could say that, I—”

The trembling gets worse.

“I—”

The sword slips from his hand and lands in the snow with a soft thud. Lambert stares at it like he doesn’t understand how it got there.

“How do you make it  _ stop?” _

His voice cracks halfway through the sentence, and he claps his hand over his mouth. He’s full-on shaking now, eyes bugging out of his head. 

“You don’t,” Geralt says honestly, because Lambert has never been one for bullshit. Lambert shakes his head wildly.

“But I have—I  _ have  _ to make it stop, I can’t  _ live like this.” _

Geralt steps even closer, holding out his arms. Lambert doesn’t so much hug him as he does fall against him. He’s burning hot, even though shivers wrack through him constantly. Geralt squeezes him tight, cupping the back of his head.

“How do you  _ live like this?”  _ Lambert sobs.

Geralt shakes his head, because he honestly doesn’t know how he does, how he keeps walking around with so much grief inside him. But he’ll try to figure it out. 

He has to.


End file.
